Deterioration
by Mei-Fabula
Summary: After her revelation of Tate's involvement in the Westfield High Massacre and his death, Violet steps through a door to the past and slowly unveils what really happened in 1994. Could she prevent the horrors of the past that taint the future?
1. Into the Past

Delicately, I slowly pulled back the black lace on my left sleeve. Once the pale skin on my wrist was bare, I allowed my fingers to softly trace the sharp straight scars across my forearm. They were so intricate, so perfect. Unlike me, whose mind was fraying at the edges.

I picked up the razorblade with shaking hands from the side of the basin. The metal awaited the incision into a bare section of my skin. With one swift movement, the blade sliced through seamlessly, producing instant crimson that oozed from the wound. All the emotional pain that had been eating me away was momentarily distracted by the physical pain in my wrist. It felt good to have that distraction, something to put my mind off Tate. My heart retracted and I clutched the basin with my right hand. Too much knowledge about him had crammed itself into my brain, squeezing into every crack and suffocating my thoughts. I couldn't grasp the basin properly with my slippery bloodied hands, just like I couldn't grasp reality. Everything about Tate seemed to be a lie, and because I felt something so different with him, it made finding out the truth that much harder. I promised myself that I wouldn't let the fear take over, but discovering that Tate died after his massacre at Westfield High pushed me over the edge. My boyfriend was a ghost, a murderous, psychotic _ghost_. It wasn't that I was scared of his capabilities; it was the shock of knowing that someone I'd started to feel strongly about wasn't even real. But…he was real. I'd touched him, held him, _kissed _him. It was my mind playing dirty, cruel tricks on me. No matter how many times I tried to convince myself that this was all a dream, each slice against my skin reminded me that this was my reality.

It would be so simple to bring the blade to my neck and cut across. I'd watch through the reflection of the mirror as my deep red blood gushed from my throat and down my chest, choking me into nothingness. If only it were that simple.

I placed the razorblade under the streaming tap, washing away my bloody mess. When I looked back up into the mirror, there he was, standing behind me. I swallowed hard as I stared back at Tate's blank expression.

"Are you scared now?" he asked.

I turned around abruptly, but he was gone. He wasn't slipping away that easily. I ran out of the bathroom, chasing the figure down the stairs. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the stripes of his shirt, so I followed. I rounded a corner as he turned another.

"Tate?" I called out. I wasn't sure what I'd do if I did find him. What would I say to him?

I was stopped in front of the basement door. Time and time again I'd open it and trail down the rickety stairs. But this time, something horrible lurked behind it, an unworldly presence. Against my better judgement, I opened it anyway, and I was greeted by an eerie white glow that sucked me in entirely.

* * *

><p>It was if I was walking back out of the basement. As I'd walked into the white glow, I emerged into the hallway again. Puzzled and slightly frightened, I walked back down the hallway. Something noticeably different hung in the air. The wooden walls looked darker, more polished. And the floorboards creaked less than usual. They were just simple observations, and I might have just been overanalysing it.<p>

There was a rummaging noise in the kitchen, and I stood up straight.

"Tate?" I whispered, slowly stepping closer to the entryway. Instead of seeing Tate, Constance occupied a stool at an unfamiliar wooden table in the centre of the room, the air above her misty with cigarette smoke.

"Constance? What are you doing here?" I asked warily. She had a habit of inviting herself in whenever she pleased.

Constance jumped half a foot off the stool, clutching a dainty hand to her chest. She didn't look a day over thirty; her skin was more youthful and her body was held with such grace. Nothing like the woman I'd first met. Her eyes were full of something I hadn't seen before. A glint of mortality.

"How did you get in here?" she demanded.

I stared back at her lividly. "If you haven't noticed, this is my house."

Constance let out a quick, squealing laugh as she analysed me. "I don't know who you are, but let me assure you that_ I_ take residence under this roof."

"Constance, it's me, Violet," I said. She took a long drag of her cigarette and it released in grey coils from her Jungle Red lips.

"As I said, I have never seen you in my life. And I hope to never see you again, uninvited, in my house. Now get out before I call the cops."

I just stood there, mouth slightly ajar, as I was listening to what she was saying.

_The woman has lost her marbles_, I thought to myself. I wasn't going to give her a reason to lose it completely, so I began to turn away, before an idea struck me.

"I saw that the front door was open and I came in—looking for Tate," I fumbled. Constance's eyes flew up to meet mine in a cold stare.

"How do you know Tate?"

I tried to sound as casual as I could, though I didn't quite understand what I was saying. "I'm a friend of his—we are pretty close."

She pursed her lips and brought the cigarette to her mouth. "What did you say your name was again?"

"Violet," I said. Constance nodded once, put out her cigarette in the ash tray and led me from the kitchen and upstairs.

"Tate has never mentioned you, not that we talk much. He's usually hiding away in that room of his."

Uneasiness was eating away my insides. Constance was acting like this actually was her house, but something inside of me was beginning to be convinced that she was sane and I was the one losing it.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked.

"We only recently moved in. This is my husband's house. I once lived here back in '83 with my previous husband, but sadly, he's deceased." Constance said it with a hint of resentment, or was it spite? I couldn't be sure.

A followed her across the hallway when I heard a large rumble from the ceiling. I looked up and saw the attic door, the string dangling above my eyes. Her eyes trailed mine and she raised an eyebrow. "Don't mind that, it's just my son Beau. He's made himself quite comfortable up there. Very cosy." I noticed her swallow ever so slightly. Not thinking too much about it, I continued to be led down the hall. Constance came to a stop at the door to my room and lightly knocked her knuckles against the wood.

"Tate-Sweetie, you have a visitor. Her name is Violet," she said it pleasantly, but everything about her tone was empty. After no reply, Constance cracked open the door and peeked through. She turned back to look at me and said, "I swear, it'll be a year before he leaves this room. '95 will approach and he'll still be in there, sulking or whatever he does with his time."

_It was the year 1994._

When the door was open enough for me to see into, I saw Tate lying on his bed. The walls were a faded blue, and every aspect of my room was unfamiliar to what it usually looked like. It was as if I never existed.

Tate's hair fell in loose golden curls over his eyes as he sat motionless on the mattress. As we entered, his head turned so slowly that I wasn't sure if it had even moved. Though Constance looked so much younger, Tate appeared just as he did the last time I saw him on Halloween night, just as beautiful as ever. But behind that beauty lurked something dark and sinister.

When his eyes came to rest on me, he sat up carefully, his gaze never leaving mine. My heart began to quicken and I felt the usual rush of exhilaration whenever we encountered.

"Violet," he said curiously, but his voice was distant, unfamiliar. He didn't know who I was.


	2. For The First Time, Twice

**WARNING! Drug References and whatnot.**

* * *

><p>A wave of disappointment ran over me. Of course he didn't know who I was; I wasn't born for another year. But something in his eyes remained the same. Deep down, he was still the Tate I knew.<p>

Tate cocked his head to one side, analysing me, just like Constance did. "Close the door on your way out, _mother_." He almost spat the last word like acid on his tongue. Constance's eyes were sorrowful for a brief second, but in an instant her face went back to its icy glaze. She nodded once to me and managed a tiny smile before leaving the room.

The atmosphere in the space changed. Tate was still watching, observing. All I could do was stand across from him in an awkward position, breathing in the silence.

"What are you here for?" he asked, shattering the invisible wall between us. "Did someone tell you I have good shit or something? 'Cause it'll cost you."

"I um—no, I came to visit you, actually," I fumbled. I didn't even recognize my own voice; it was raspy with a hint of nervousness.

"Do you go to Westfield?"

"Yeah, I do." It wasn't exactly a lie. I just enrolled a lot later.

Tate nodded slightly, eyes narrowing. "I've never seen you before."

"That's because I usually lay low. I've seen you, and I thought I'd come by and finally meet you." My eyes shifted and I swallowed hard.

"I see everyone, everything. How could you have slipped past without me noticing?"

"It's really easy to be invisible," I said.

"No, I would have seen _you_." Whether it was the past or the present, Tate was still so delicate around me. I knew, from the way he spoke to Constance, that his kindness didn't come naturally. Though we were meeting for the first time twice, we were still drawn to each other. I just hoped that we could rebuild what we had.

Tate bounced from the bed and strode towards me in a single swift movement. I sucked in a breath as he lingered around me. Then, he grabbed my left hand. "You're right-handed," he said, exposing the skin beneath my left sleeve. Before I could question how he knew, I comprehended why he said it. The self-harm mutilation that was my forearm was revealed. There weren't any words shared as he touched the scars.

"Why do you cut yourself?" he asked.

"Different emotional pain that I go through is easier to deal with when I turn it into physical."

"What about this one?" He gently stroked my fresh wound, stinging the open surface. "Something emotionally damaged you recently?"

_Oh, that one was from finding out that my boyfriend was a murderer and a ghost. _

"Just some family problems," I lied, pulling away my arm. Tate's hands still hovered in the air, fists clenched. He was staring at me intently, his eyes rimmed with shadows and weariness. It was like he was trying to figure me out, but kept hitting a brick wall. He dropped his gaze which released mine.

When he moved back to the bed, I realised I'd been holding my breath. Tate looked so bitter, so alone. It hurt to seem him that empty, when all I wanted to do was make him happy. I didn't quite know how I could fix him. It was '94, the year Tate went on a shooting spree, killing 15 students and disabled a teacher at Westfield High. The year he died.

* * *

><p>"I promise you, I have really good shit," Tate said with a devilish grin, revealing a biscuit canister as I propped myself up on his bed. Popping the lid, he produced a zip lock bag of white powder and chucked it into my lap. It was soft under my hands as I turned it over.<p>

"Cocaine?" I asked, smiling. Memories flooded back to the time when I had tricked Leah into thinking I had the stuff in my basement and where Tate had scared her to the brink of insanity. I didn't like letting that memory rise in my mind, for it shuddered me to my core. What Tate did down there was only partly his doing. Something else assisted him in his prank.

"Only the best," he said. "I know I said it'd cost you, but I was planning on having a buzz so you might as well join me, free of charge."

"You probably don't want to waste it on me," I said, eyeing the packet with a hint of distaste. He expressed a small smile and placed half of a straw in my palm, wrapping his fingers around mine, enclosing it in my grasp. His hands were so warm, so gentle. Usually when I touched them they were cool and rough, but maybe that's what happened to the hands of a ghost. But these hands were real, _alive_. Tate's eyes lingered on me, and I felt a sense of comfort and importance, but also caution. This was still the Tate from the past, the Tate that slaughtered the innocent.

"There's something inside me that doesn't want you to leave," he said softly. "I still don't quite understand why you came to see me, but I'm glad you did. It sucks being this secluded from the world. Constance tries to talk to me, but everything that comes out of that woman's mouth is bullshit."

Perhaps I was meeting the boy before his murderous nature. Perhaps the darkness hadn't overcome him yet.

"I want you to have some," he continued. "What better way to spend the afternoon than getting to know you?"

I wanted to knock back his offer, but this was how I was going to get closer to him. Tate poured the white powder onto a flat board in perfect strips. Aided by his straw, he polished two strips clean, rubbing his nose and sighing blissfully.

"Have you ever done this before?" Tate asked before I had my turn. I shook my head and said bashfully, "I'm not one for drugs."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

I replied with a smile and lifted the straw to the board. I clumsily managed to inhale one strip, and a tingling ache filled my nasal passage and my throat. Beyond the sting, a wave of pleasure coated my body and satisfied my mind with relief. This was just as good as cutting myself, and it distracted every ounce of my unhappiness, leaving the feeling of ecstasy. Tate was watching me carefully for my reaction, and when he heard me lightly moan, he let his shoulders sag in relief.

"I wasn't quite sure how you'd react," he said.

I needed another hit, so I went for the second strip when Tate grabbed my hand.

"If you haven't done this before, go steady," he said, "I don't want your first buzz to be your last."

But I _craved_ it. I wanted to feel that exhilaration again. Despite Tate's warning, I polished down the strip just as he had done before.

My head was whirling and the longing was relieved by the rush of pleasantness. I allowed my eyes to close as colours danced behind my lids. In my mind, my body was swaying to a rhythm unlike anything of this world. The sensation was slowly fading, and all the colours swirling around me began to blotch with blackness, like poison. Something was shaking me, and my eyes flew open to see Tate's hands around my shoulders. Swimming in his eyes was worry.

"Don't do that again, okay?" he said after exhaling.

"Sorry," I said, pressing down a laugh. But I succumbed and let out a giggle. Tate bit down the urge to laugh at me, but he too couldn't compress it. We both sat there laughing like idiots, clutching our stomachs and wheezing as we took a breath. I hadn't felt this good in a long time. Since my family was falling apart, the darkness was all I had. And I had Tate to share it with me.

My body was growing weak from the muscle strain. I collapsed forward, landing on something warm. It stiffened under my head, and I realised I was pressed against Tate's chest. I quickly withdrew from him, eyes wide. His eyes were just as big as he registered my suddenly forward gesture.

"Sorry," I said again, but this time I didn't laugh. I fought the urge to cry as warm tears began to fill my eyes. I'd completely forgotten that he didn't know who I was, and that he didn't care for me the way I did for him.

Tate looked confused. "Are you okay?"

I bit my lip and nodded, but a tear escaped. I regretted it and wiped it away fiercely.

"Hey," he said, lifting my chin. "You can lay on me if you really want to, I'm cool with that."

"It's not that," I said, "I just didn't realise this would be so hard."

He let go of my chin. "I knew it."

"Knew what?" I asked as he moved back.

"Constance told you to come here, didn't she? Did she think that if she brought a pretty girl over that I'd leave this room? Well, I'm sorry I'm making it so hard for you. I guess it's going to take a lot more than laying on me. But I bet she's paying you by the hour, right?"

He got off the bed, but I grabbed hold of his arm. His muscles were tense under my grasp.

"No, she didn't, and she isn't," I said hastily. "_I _came here to see _you_. I want to be your friend."

He let out a dark chuckle. "Friend? I don't need friends. I don't need anyone."

"I need you!" I said quickly, pressing my hand against my mouth to stop any more words escaping. I regretted that the drug in my system was screwing with my head. Everything I wanted to keep hidden was spilling from me.

"Who are you, Violet? You keep saying and doing things that make it seem like you've known me forever. I've never seen you before and all of a sudden you rock up at my door wanting to be my friend."

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Yeah, you keep saying that," he said, pressing his lips together. Tate opened the door, an indication for me to leave. I was stunned. Where was I to go? I had nowhere to live, I wasn't even born yet.

Getting off the bed, I wobbled slowly to the door, head hung. I couldn't look at him, it hurt too much. I'd just ruined any chance of befriending this Tate from the past.

Then, the door slammed before I had a chance to exit through the frame. My gazed followed up to Tate's, and he looked down at me in wonder.

"You promise Constance didn't tell you to come?" he asked.

"I promise," I whispered.

He nodded once and shifted back to the bed. "I guess you can stay for a few more hours."


	3. A Calling

"Violet!"

It was my mother's voice calling out to me. I rolled over and pressed my face into the pillow. There was a different scent to the material. It reminded me of Tate's hair. Copper and spice.

Then I remembered.

I wasn't quite sure how long I'd been asleep for. My eyes were groggy as they adjusted to the dark room. It took me only a few seconds to realise that I was still in Tate's bed. A loud ringing hammered at my head, and I touched my temples gingerly. The memories of the previous afternoon flooded back to me. It consisted of more drug consumption, laughing and the sharing of stories. I could recall almost spilling the truth of where I was from, but I recovered by saying I lived within the town.

But there was something else that I searched my mind for, a memory that refused to appear. It left a dark hole in my mind, unable to put my mind at ease until I found it.

I looked down and saw Tate sound asleep, his expression soft and peaceful. Behind his lids his eyes were moving, submerged in a dream, and his mouth quivered as if he were making silent conversation. Under the blankets his shirt was off, smooth muscle rippled over his torso, his chest rising and falling with precision. I fought the urge to run my fingers over him. He really was beautiful.

A startlingly loud voice broke the silence. I knew the voice anywhere; it was my mother's.

"Violet!" she called. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, and I wondered why Tate was still asleep and undisturbed after the booming voice of my mother echoed against the walls. Perhaps somehow she was able to call out to me whilst I was in the past, like a crack in the wall was breaking the barrier between this world and mine. If I could find that split in time, maybe I could go back home.

Trying not to wake him, I climbed over the side of the bed and touched my feet to the floorboards. Her voice was coming through the door, so I twisted the handle gently and swung it open. There was nothing but the dark shadows of the hallway, yet my mother's impatient and firm voice was still beckoning me. Before I knew it, I was running. Running down the stairs and dodging the objects in the darkness. My first and only place I'd look was the basement. I came through that way, what's to say I can't return that way either?

This house answered that question for me. I twisted the rusted knob on the door to the basement and practically ripped it open. There was no white glow, only the first few steps of the basement stairs before they were lost in the shadows.

"Violet?" her voice said again, but this time it was lower, like she'd noticed my presence.

"You're going to die down there." My eyes snapped up to see a familiar girl across the hall from me in a white nightgown.

"Adelaide?" I asked cautiously.

Through the dimness I could see traces of the Adelaide I once knew inside the body of a young adult. The last time I'd seen her was when she asked me to make her look like a 'pretty girl' for Halloween. She had died that night, and it was strange looking at her now. This Adelaide still had years before she'd meet her fate.

"Who are you?" she asked, eyes full of inquisitiveness. Everyone seemed to find me so fascinating, and it made me a little uncomfortable.

"I'm a friend of Tate's," I said with a faint smile before I put my foot through the frame.

"Don't go down there. You'll regret it," she said.

"Violet…" my mother said kindly. I was stuck between the two voices; a tug of war inside my head. I recall Adelaide saying the strangest things when she was alive. Things about warnings and death, but nothing ever happened. We'd all come to think that she was just attention seeking, getting amusement out of our distress.

Ignoring Adelaide's advice, I walked through, and I heard the pattering of her feet as she disappeared. Every footstep deeper enclosed me within the black room. Of course, I wanted to run back up and into Tate's bed again—back to his warmth and safety—but if my mother was down there, I had to find her.

The chant of my name ceased when I hit the bottom step and I was left in silence. The only thing I could hear was my breath shuddering in and out. Then, I remembered what Tate had said that had been racking my brain. The memory flooded the empty hole in my mind like liquid pouring into a glass. We were on our backs, looking at the ceiling. He was talking about how deceptive the walls of this house were, and that sometimes it called to him. "I always find myself drawn to this voice—this familiar and comforting voice," he had said, playing with the straw between his fingers, "and it leads me to the basement. I don't know why. Sometimes it whispers ungodly things to me, corrupting my thoughts. But I refuse to let it win."

That was what was happening now. I spun on my toes and raced up the stairs, but the door slammed shut. I tried for the door handle but it refused to budge, so instead I banged my fists against the wood.

"Adelaide? Adelaide, this isn't funny! Open the door!" I yelled, attacking the door until my knuckles began to ache.

The sound of loud snaps echoed below. It momentarily caught my attention and I stopped to listen. The snaps were increasing in volume, getting closer with every thwack.

"Adelaide," I said in a calmer tone, but I couldn't entirely hold in my panic, "you've had your fun, now please open the door."

There was no reply on the other side. Not even a faint giggle from the girl who locked me in.

The snapping was getting closer and closer, and I could hear the mumbles of young boys. They were laughing at each other, teasing, taunting. A new sound entered the darkness. It was a sort of scuttling, like clawed feet against the cold ground. The voices and the snapping retreated as the scuttling grew louder. I braced myself against the door, pressing back as far as I could. My eyes were somewhat adjusted to the dark as a tiny figure materialised and began crawling up the steps. It was the size of a small child, but nothing about the creature was human. Where sweet little baby teeth should have been was needle sharp daggers coated thickly in blood. Every ounce of my body was screaming for me to bang and scratch the door apart to escape, but I just stood there, frozen. The shock of seeing such a creature crawling dementedly step by step towards me had locked my muscles, and the only part of me that seemed to be working was my eyes, fixating on its every movement. Its hands were wrinkly talons; on the tips of its fingers were overgrown nails. It lunged for me, but my body returned just in time to roll over, its sharp points digging into the wood of the door. Taking advantage of the polished wood, it ripped its claws down to make a bloodcurdling screech like nails on a blackboard. I clasped my hands to my ears as my body contracted. There was nothing I could do but let the thing make the horrific noise, and I felt wetness leaking from my ear.

"Stop!" I wailed, hot tears stinging my eyes. It cocked its head towards me and ceased the sound. The look in its hollow black eyes was full of hunger, thirst. If it were starving down there, I was just what it needed to quench its bloodlust.

As quick as it took for it to pounce again, the door flung open just as fast and I was pulled out. The creature grabbed for my foot, sinking its sharp nails though my jeans and into my flesh. A screamed out in pain as someone whacked it back down the stairs. The door swung shut with a bang, the sound of the creature's screech merely an echo in my bloodied ears.

Tate's deep brown eyes scorched mine. "Addy woke me up and told me that you'd gone down to the basement, and I was scared I was too late," he said, his lips trembling slightly. "I told you about the things that go on down there, weren't you listening? Something lives down there. I know I sound crazy, but you got to believe me, Violet."

"I know," I choked. I could barely concentrate on what he was saying because of my throbbing leg. The bottom of my jeans was stained a deep red, nothing like the bright crimson that produced from the cuts on my wrists. Tate's eyes followed mine and saw what I was seeing. "Shit," he cursed, examining the wound. "Did it bite you?"

I shook my head feebly. Just that bit of movement drained my energy. "It grabbed hold of me with its claws." I realised how strange it sounded coming from my lips. That thing down there wasn't a possessed garden gnome. It was some kind of demon.

Tate bit his lip as he watched my eyelids sag. I wanted nothing more than to go back to his bed and sleep under his soft blankets. He scooped me up in his arms, my head pressed gently against his chest. That same scent lingered on his skin, a blend of coppery spices. The last thing I could recall was Tate placing me on the kitchen table and aiding to my burning leg before I lost consciousness.


	4. The Burn Room

**I've decided to rate this M since things are becoming much darker...**

* * *

><p>I was still on the kitchen table when I gained consciousness. My back arched and little bolts of pain struck me like electricity. It distracted me for a moment until the ache in my leg returned. I shot up and clasped my thigh, gasping. At the bottom of my foot was Tate, bandaging my swollen ankle. He'd rolled up my jeans, now stained in a hard red crust. He didn't look up, he just continued to dress my wound.<p>

"You've done a pretty good job there," I said with a smile. "I probably would have lost my leg if it weren't for you."

I was responded with silence.

"Tate?"

He finished pinning the bandage down and looked at me, eyes ablaze. "Aren't you angry? Scared? Don't you want to run away now that you know I live in a freak house?"

"I'm not afraid. I thought I was, but I'm safe now."

"No, you're not safe. Being in this house isn't safe! Didn't you gather that information when you went into the basement? What if Addy didn't come and wake me? That _thing _would have killed you."

I remembered the black pits of its eyes and cringed inwardly. "Do you know what it is?" I asked.

Tate shook his head and grabbed a cloth to run it under the tap. "I tried going down there once to see, but I couldn't get a close enough look without it jumping at me. From what I've seen, it looks like a child. A mutilated baby…"

He scrunched the wet cloth. "You've got blood in your ears," he said. I let my legs dangle over the edge of the table. Tate gently leaned my head to the side and pushed stray hairs behind my ear. His touch sent little jolts of delight to flow through me. Dampness filled my ear as he cleaned.

"You must think I'm nuts," Tate sighed, his warm breath lingering on my neck. If only he brought his mouth closer, he could press his lips against the bare skin. I thought I saw him leaning in, considering the thought too, but his was just concentrating on getting the blood out.

"I don't," I whispered. He let out a breathless laugh.

"There," he gave me a goofy grin and dabbed the tip of my nose with the wet cloth, "all patched up."

I went to wipe my nose when he caught my hand. "Wait," he said, eyes on my neck. "You have a bit of blood in your hair."

Tate took my neck in his hands and rubbed a few strands of bloodied hair between his thumb and forefinger. When he was done, he didn't let go. He cradled my jaw and stared at me in wonder. I sucked in a breath, lost in his dark eyes.

"You're so different, Violet. Even grown men would run out of my house screaming like a little girl from seeing what you saw. You don't even seem fazed, which interests me as to why."

"I've seen worse," I said, not leaving his face.

He chuckled and shook his head. "Who are you?" His eyes were glistening as he gently caressed my cheek with his thumb. I couldn't speak, I couldn't even breathe. Tate's hand trailed down my arm and stopped at my waist. My body inclined towards his as he fondled with the fabric on my shirt. I desperately needed him to kiss me, to feel his lips pressed harshly against mine. He was an addiction, like cocaine. Once I had some, I wanted _more_. I reached my hand to his bare chest, satisfying my desire to feel his muscle. His body reacted with a shiver. Tate lightly brushed his lips against the corner of my mouth and closed his eyes. "Violet…"

There was a knock. We broke apart, cheeks flushed. Adelaide was standing against the archway.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked, though her mischievous smile indicated that she knew she was.

"No," Tate's voice was high pitched until he coughed it out. "I was just fixing up Violet. Go back to bed, Addy. It's late."

She chortled and walked off. "I'll leave you two be, then."

My cheeks were burning. Tate wasn't looking at me, just fiddling with his hands. "I don't think you're stable enough to go home till morning, so we probably should go back upstairs," he said.

I nodded and got to my feet. At least, I tried to. The moment my wounded leg touched the floor, it felt like I was stepping on shards of glass. I wailed, falling forward. Tate steadied me and sighed. "I'm going to have to carry you again, aren't I?"

"No, you don't have to, I'm sure I can manage to—" after taking another step, the pain increased. I gritted my teeth and fell back against the table.

"Let me help you." He picked me up and headed for the stairs. I'd underestimated his strength, for he managed to carry me up the vast staircase without a single irregular breath.

Tate placed me gently on the bed and sat on the side. "Thanks," I said. He climbed over me and slipped under the covers.

"Night," he said. I rolled over and stared at his back to me.

"Tate?" I whispered.

He too rolled over to face me. "Yeah?"

It would be so simple to pick up where we left off, to just lean in and kiss him, but I fought that temptation. For now.

"Sweet dreams."

* * *

><p>Tate wasn't next to me when I woke up in the morning. I proceeded to remember going down to the basement and being attacked, and Tate patching me up along with a near kiss. I savoured the memory as my mind lingered on it. I'd played out different scenarios of what could have happened in my head; if he'd given me soft kisses or hard, been gentle or rough. Dreams fuelled my imagination with high expectations.<p>

The door creaked open and Tate entered the room quietly, only to see that I was awake. His hair was wet and shaggy, dripping onto his neck. He smelt of soap mixed in with his usual coppery scent.

"I thought you'd sleep forever, you looked so tired," he said.

"Last night was pretty intense."

"Yeah, it was."

"Do you think your parents would care that you stayed here overnight?" he asked. I shook my head. "Lately, my parents have been so caught up in their own melodramatic lives that they've begun to forget about me. I usually stay in my room, so they probably haven't even noticed I've left it. They think I'm depressed, but what would they know?"

"Are you? Is that why you cut yourself?"

"I don't know. I'm just…confused."

Tate nodded once, dropping the subject. "How's your leg? Has the pain gone down?"

I'd barely noticed until Tate brought it up. But once my attention was on it, I could feel it throbbing through the bandage. He sat down on the bed and lifted my foot onto his lap. Layer by layer he carefully unravelled the bandage to reveal five bloodied craters in my ankle. It didn't look real, more like the makeup and special effects used in films. Now that the wound had been irritated, the inflammation increased in intensity. The skin around the gashes was tight with a greenish tinge to it, like venom pulsating through my bloodstream.

"It's getting infected. I'm going to have to go get some more supplies. This bandage is useless now." Tate held up the brown-red blood crusted solid to the material. Just as he started getting up, I finally worked up the nerve to confront him on the topic he seemed to be avoiding.

"Tate, about last night, in the kitchen—"

Tate sighed and looked at his feet. "I know, and I'm sorry for being so forward. I guess we were both scared and vulnerable and I took advantage of it. You could have been seriously hurt if I wasn't there. The fear of knowing that drove me to impulsiveness. I promise not to put you in that situation again."

"No, but—"

"I'll be back soon. Just rest your foot until I get back."

He was obviously avoiding the topic like the plague. I couldn't believe he thought I'd be scared away; I was the one encouraging him last night. I was the one who wanted it more.

The door clicked shut and I fell back against the pillows. It was just me, my thoughts and a leg wounded by a child-sized monster hiding in the basement.

But I wasn't alone. A gush of hushed voices was approaching like waves on the ocean. The whispers hit the walls, or were they filtering through them? Each voice floated around my mind, striking me with their tongues.

_Violet…Violet…Violet…Violet…Violet…Violet…_

I couldn't run. I was bound to the bed because of my leg. All I could do was lay there and endure the purrs and shrieks of my name repeated over and over again. No amount of force that it took to push the pillows to my ears stopped the sound reaching them.

I ripped the covers off and when I looked at my leg, there was nothing there. Pure shock and horror dizzied my mind as I felt the unblemished pearly skin. There was no pain, no nothing. Not even blood stained my jeans; it was like it never happened. There was only one explanation, I was losing my mind.

The voices started up again, louder and more determined. Blessed with the ability to walk again, I ran from Tate's room, banging into the wall in the hallway from exiting too fast. My hands slid over the walls and my head was pressed up against it. The voices were screaming, calling out my name in desperation behind them.

_VIOLET! VIOLET! VIOLET! VIOLET! VIOLET!_

Closer and closer I scanned the walls until I was led to a room, all the screams pouring out from behind the door. I had a habit of confronting them. Each room in this house was unpredictable, as it has been proven before. First the basement, now this.

"Enough!" I cried. I couldn't endure their wails so I ripped open the door. Everything stopped, leaving a trail of whispers floating in the air.

"Violet!" a frail woman said to one of the two girls bouncing upon her bed. "Refrain yourself, please."

The woman, whose curly ash hair was falling out of its pins, looked like she'd been crying. The girls sat still on their beds, watching as their mother doused their pink room with a bottle of liquid. When I looked closer, it was gasoline.

"Mommy, what are you doing?" one of the girls asked. The woman continued to splash the curtains and the sofas until they were drenched.

"Daddy wants us to leave," she choked. "And tonight, we're leaving."

With shaking hands, the woman took one look at her children, lit the match and threw it.

"No!" I gasped, running into the room. My body was hit with a scorching blow and I was knocked back. Inside the room the girls were screaming, their skin burning like plastic did. They turned into charred, bubbling bones in seconds. As for the mother, she was sitting on the sofa as the fire consumed her entirely.

Maybe this was all a dream, a hallucination caused by my slowly deteriorating mind. I could be in my bed back home, tossing and turning as I was trapped in this world where I watched as three people burned to death in this room.

I stumbled back and hit something behind me. Screaming, I turned around to see Tate holding my elbows. He grabbed the handle and closed the door, the fire licking beneath it.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked, cleaning my face from wetness. I hadn't realised I'd started crying.

"That woman, she set her own children on fire," I sobbed. "Didn't you just see it?" I usually didn't let myself be overcome by things that scared me, but all this was taking it too far.

"Violet, all I saw was you screaming from that room," he said. Tate was proving my insanity.

"But it's on fire!" I shouted, grabbing for the handle. I expected heat to hit my face, but all the flames and screaming was gone. All that was left was a charcoaled room. Every corner of the room was charred, black stained the floor all the way up to the ceiling. From the top of the walls, I could still see the pink paint that once coated them.

"It was on fire, once," Tate said. "About six months ago, Larry was married before he told his wife about his affair with Constance. His wife set fire to this room with her kids in it."

"Shit," I breathed. "How could a mother do that to her own children?"

"I guess a broken heart can do that."

Tate lifted the shopping bag with his hand and said, "I've got the supplies, but by the looks of things, you seem to be walking fine."

"You have no idea," I said, lifting my leg for him to see. Tate frowned and took my leg, examining it. "How—?"

"I don't know. It was there and now it's like I was never attacked to begin with."

His eyes darkened. "I told you, this house isn't safe. It's playing mind games with us. I know I sound crazy, but I'm telling the truth."

"I believe you," I sighed. This damned house brought me to this time, called out my name and showed me the memory of a burning room like a scene in a movie.

Tate invited me into his arms. I embraced him gratefully, feeling security.

"I've learned to be stronger than this house. You need to be strong too," Tate said.


	5. Unfortunately Fortunate

"And you don't feel any pain?" Tate asked as he sat with me on his bed, touching my unharmed ankle. I shook my head. "Like I said, it's as if I was never attacked."

"That's a waste of supplies then," he chuckled quietly, still eyeing my leg with suspicion.

"Thanks anyway, Tate," I said, placing my hand on his. He stopped looking at my leg to see my palm across his knuckles.

"I guess you'll be leaving, now that you're okay to move and stuff. You probably can't wait to leave after all the crazy shit that's happened." His mouth twitched and he pulled his hand away.

"I—I don't have to leave yet, unless you want me to," I quickly said, which made his ears rise. A beautiful smile painted his mouth and he cocked his head to the side. "Yeah, you can stay. There's been someone I've wanted you to meet."

* * *

><p>Tate stood beside me, hands in his pockets, as we walked down the hallway.<p>

"Where did you live before you moved in here?" I asked.

He smirked and nodded to his left. "Right next door. I used to live here, until my father left us."

"Tell me about your father," I said, making conversation. Tate just stared aimlessly as if he were plucking the memories from his mind.

"I don't really remember him, I was only six. Constance said he was a cheater and a bastard, and that she's glad he's gone," he said it bitterly. There was an emptiness in his eyes that was once filled by his father. He missed him.

"I'm sorry," I said. I remembered what Constance had said to me yesterday, that her late husband had passed. I was scared that I may have hit a nerve and bit my lip, but he just shrugged. "I barely knew the guy."

Tate clasped his hand around the string to the attic.

"Constance said your brother lives up there. Is he one of those teens that hide themselves away too?" I asked.

"Sort of like that."

The stairs came clicking down and I followed Tate up. Inside, the room was damp and cold, cobwebs and dust coated every surface, unsettling in the air as we moved. A tiny light flickered softly, spotlighting a section of the room with a bed against the wall. When we were safely inside the attic, Tate said, "I'm just warning you, he's not quite like us. But I've seen how strong you are, so I'm confident you'll be okay with it."

"Okay with what—?"

A red ball came rolling out of the darkness and landed at my feet. I picked it up and examined it. It was a simple rubber bouncy play toy that one would give to a pet dog.

"Roll it back," Tate whispered into my ear, breathing lightly into my hair and making me shiver. I did what I was told and sent it rolling back in the same direction.

"Play!" a gravelly voice said through the dark. I jumped back a little, but Tate rested his hand on the small of my back. "Yes, Beau. We are here to play," he said.

I sucked in a breath as a figure crawled from the shadows. What was before me was definitely human, but he was completely disfigured. His face was too big for the rest of him, all puffy and tight, nearly closing over his eyes. Black untamed hair fell to his shoulders and he was dressed in a grey long-sleeve shirt. He didn't act monstrous, just shy and curious. He jerked back a bit when he saw me, but Tate put his hands up. "Beau, this is Violet. She's my friend, and she wants to play too."

An invisible force tightened around my heart as he sat across from us, a chain clasped around his leg, rolling it again. Tate and I sat down and returned the ball.

"You chain him away up here, in this dark creepy place?" I whispered, disgusted. Though I knew people would scream in terror just by the look of him, I couldn't bear thinking that this was how they treated people who were sick.

"This is all Constance's doing," Tate spat. "Her chances of having healthy kids are low. It started with Addy; she was born with Down syndrome, and then Beau, who is mentally handicapped."

"But you weren't born like them," I said.

"She calls me her perfect son," Tate laughed humourlessly. He resented Constance so much. I wondered what she did that pushed him to the point of such loathing.

It had to be partly because of her treatment of his brother. Beau happily continued to roll the ball back and forth between us, his mouth grinning rows of crooked and crowded discoloured teeth. It hardly seemed to bother him that he was restrained by force in this room.

I crawled towards him with the ball in my hand. Tate didn't move or hold me back, just allowed me to approach him innocently to sit in front of him. Beau whimpered and shrank back slightly from my closeness, but all I did was hold the ball out. He carefully reached for it, a dirty hand curling around mine. I smiled as warmly as I could, making sure he knew my intentions were harmless.

"I really like it up here," I said, no sarcasm or bitterness in my tone. "You're pretty lucky to have such a cool room. Your mother must love you a lot."

Beau laughed and nodded excitedly. Behind all that warped flesh was still a boy that needed to love and be loved. Tears threatened to rise, but I held them back. It made me sick when I saw animal cruelty on television, but this was a totally different level of repulsiveness. Constance should be charged for child neglect, at the least. Still, Beau was so gentle-souled, and though he was unfortunately burdened with this mental and physical state, he seemed completely unfazed. That's what sickened me.

Beau jumped onto his bed and bounced excitedly. He grabbed something from the window ledge and displayed it on his palm for me. It was a rusted silver necklace; the pendant emerald stone and chipped in the corners.

"Beau is quite a charmer," Tate said. "To receive his necklace is a sign of attraction."

Beau prodded the piece of jewellery towards me and I took it gratefully. "It's beautiful, Beau. Thank you." I fastened it around my neck and the stone rested securely against my chest. A satisfying smile painted Beau's face.

I turned to look at Tate, who was watching me with a sense of gratitude. Or was it admiration?

"It's time for Violet and I to go now, Beau," Tate said, holding out a hand for me and pulled me up.

"I promise to come and play with you again," I said, which made Beau nod happily. I didn't take my eyes off him as Tate led me back down from the attic.

The air was noticeably clearer in comparison to the stale dustiness of Beau's room. He shouldn't have to live under those conditions.

"Why isn't anything being done about him?" I demanded as Tate closed up the stairs. He sighed. "Constance thinks it's for the best. But no matter how much I disagree, I know deep down that she's right."

Before I could retort, he continued. "I know that he's living horribly up there, but to him it feels like luxury. He doesn't know any better."

"That's disgusting," I spat. "How can you say that? He's still human and deserves to be cared for properly, whether he's aware of it or not."

"I know, Violet," Tate said, defeated. "I took you up there to see him because he needed some happiness in that dark room. You brought a genuine smile to his face, and it couldn't have been greater to watch."

Tate was watching me with what I now knew was definitely admiration. It made my stomach lurch and my cheeks to blush vigorously. I turned away from him so he couldn't see what my face had become. "Do you have anything else planned for the rest of the day?" I asked. He nodded and took my hand again.

* * *

><p>We walked a short way until we hit the sand of a small familiar beach. It looked different in the daylight, but I knew that this was the beach Tate brought me to on Halloween night. The lifeguard station we had sat at on our date was there, looking much newer and freshly painted.<p>

Tate, still holding my hand in his, led me down the beach and we sat down on the soft sand. I could already feel it leaking into my sneakers.

"I always come here when high school, the world, got so small I—"

"Couldn't breathe," I finished for him, resiting what he had said to me that night. Tate glanced at me in astonishment.

"Yeah," he said, observing me thoughtfully. "You seem to know me too well. Please tell me you aren't one of those chicks who creep up through my window with a ladder to watch me sleep or anything?"

I laughed. "What would you do if it were true?"

"Well, as much as it'd make sense, you don't seem to be that chick. And besides, I like you way too much to care."

Surprised by his words, I looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "You do?"

"Of course. You are fearless, cool and pretty hot."

"How can I be cool and hot at the same time?" I asked teasingly.

"You just can. That's what makes you different." Tate tucked my hair behind my ear just like he did last night. It had the same effect on me, a tingle of pleasure.

He pulled me close so his lips were against my ear and touched the pendant around my neck. "What you did for my brother—I can't even explain it. You're incredible, Violet. And I hope it's okay if I take a jump right now."

I took his jaw in my hands. "Please jump," I whispered urgently, knowing what he wanted, and brought his lips to mine. All the bottled up desire that had been churning inside of me finally overflowed and poured over my senses. I knew I was kissing Tate, but his lips were different. These were the lips of a living, breathing Tate. They weren't so much foreign, but fuller and more indulgent. It made the satisfaction of kissing him that more fulfilling.

Tate curled his hands around my waist and lowered me to the sand so he hovered over me, elbows propping himself up, protectively. Pressed up as close as I could to his body, I traced his neck and back. My hands had already explored him before, but all this felt new and desperate to be discovered. He placed soft kisses from my ear to my collarbone, exploring too.

Tate pulled away for a breath and said hoarsely, "I've wanted to do that since the moment I saw you walk through my door."

"I've wanted to longer," I said, entwining my fingers in his hair, pulling him back to my hungry lips. I wanted this moment to last forever, but deep down, eating me away, was the fact that Tate's sinister fate was yet to come. But wasn't I rewriting history right now? Maybe the house brought me back—not for its own cynical amusement—to save Tate from his inevitable doom.


	6. Breaking Point

"Stay."

Tate trailed kisses down my neck, whispering his invitation back into the house. We stood on the front porch, his arms pressed firmly on my hips under my receding shirt. I had to play out my response carefully, to let him think that I actually had a place to go home to. If he didn't ask me to stay, I'd probably be browsing for the nicest park bench.

"I want to, but I bet my parents have noticed I'm not in my room by now," I whispered teasingly.

"I promise they'll have you back after you join me for Thanksgiving," he said breathlessly, biting softly on my earlobe. I didn't realise what the exact date was, and it surprised me that Tate would invite me to stay for the occasion.

My legs began to weaken and his grip on my sides tightened, balancing me. Tate really knew how to trigger my soft spots. No matter the time difference between the two Tates, they both had the same effect on me.

"And what if my parents have something planned too?"

Tate pinched lightly, whispering in my ear. "Do they?"

"No," I said, Tate's nibbles tickling my ear and sending me into a giggling fit. "Okay, I'll stay."

Tate pulled away to look at me directly, a goofy grin of triumph plastered on his face, and took my hand to pull me inside.

His hand still firmly locked in mine, Tate took me upstairs. Every so step he'd stop me in my tracks and pull me in for a kiss, which both surprised me and drove my emotions wild. This Tate was so lively, so loving; it hurt to know that he must have been through so much to end up the dark and mysterious boy I first met. Though the future Tate was always delicate and loving towards me, something was still missing inside his heart. In this time, his heart was complete, but soon enough a part will be ripped from it. Being here gives me the chance to prevent him from his destruction.

"I'll be right back," Tate said, cheeks flushed vibrantly. "I'll tell Constance we're having another person to celebrate with."

He left me standing at his bedroom door as he went to look for Constance. As my hand touched the doorknob, a rumbling knocked at the ceiling. It was coming from the attic. I missed Beau, and I thought that I'd go give him company until Tate came back.

The stairs to the attic were already folded out when I approached, and I looked around for any sign of Beau. The rumbling still came from above, as well as a faint voice. Step by step I crept up into the attic, seeing the light illuminating a figure hovering over Beau, who was under the sheets of his bed.

It was a man, most likely Constance's husband, hushing Beau as he fell asleep. I kept my distance at the entrance of the attic, admiring the man's gentle nature towards Beau. I'd be meeting him at the table tonight, and perhaps I could mention how sweet his stepson was.

"God, help me," I heard him faintly say, and before I could register why he said it, his hand grasped a pillow and he pressed it harshly over Beau's face. Beau squirmed and pulled at the man's shoulders, his legs flailing as his suffocation increased. I was stunned, holding tightly to the railing to stop me from falling backwards.

"Stop!" I choked, but my voice was lost in my tears and the sound of Beau's smothered screams. The man hardly even acknowledged my presence; he just continued to keep the pillow firmly in place. Beau's struggles were slowing until he fell limp. The man collapsed in defeat, his head rested on the pillow that assisted him in the murder of a beautiful creature.

My cries could now be heard, and the man's head snapped towards me. To prevent him seeing me, I ducked back down the stairs, my foot catching on a step. I flailed backwards, my stomach twisting at the feeling of falling. The floor came up to meet me and my body crashed harshly against the wooden boards. All the air in my lungs was pushed out, leaving me breathless and sobbing. I stayed there on the ground, my back burning and my chest heaving rapidly. Hysteria overcame me and I oppressed my raspy cries with my hand. I got to my knees and crawled towards Tate's door. I needed to get away before the man could catch the spying culprit. Opening the door and crawling through, I slammed it shut and leaned back against it. Again, I started crying, preventing any air from regaining a flow to my lungs. I just witnessed a murder.

My heart ached and I clasped feebly at it through the material of my shirt. The door pushed forwards, and I awaited the eyes of the killer standing over me, but I was relieved to see Tate's soft and concerned ones instead.

"What—? Violet, what's wrong?" Tate crouched down and took my jaw in his hands. He tried to wipe away all the tears from my wet face, but they were still pouring from my eyes.

"Violet, talk to me," he said worryingly. I couldn't bring myself to speak the horrific memory that replayed behind my eyes.

"B-Beau. He-e's d-dead," was all I could say before I broke out into more hysteria. I hated that I let myself become such a mess; usually I didn't show much emotion, but this really pushed me.

"What?" Tate said, trying to understand my babbling speech.

"I just saw this man suffocating Beau," I said more clearly. Tate's eyes widened, and he ran from the room. I followed him out, and across the hallway was the man, folding the last bit of the stairs back into the ceiling. His face was sharp and blank when he saw us, and he wore a neat grey shirt buttoned to his wrists and tucked into black pants. As respectable as he looked, behind all that physique was a killer. He nodded once to Tate and smiled, but when his eyes fell on me, his jaw tightened and he hurried away.

I could hear Tate's heart beating rapidly in his chest as he fumbled with the string to the attic. He finally pulled the stairs back down and climbed hastily up them.

"Beau?" Tate called out, dread coating his voice. He said his name again, rushing to the side of his bed. He clasped two hands over his brother's shoulders and shook him, repeating his name over and over again until it became a shout. I just sat there with my hands on Tate's back. No amount of soothing could prevent both of us from collapsing in fits of screams and tears.

* * *

><p>Tate became as cold as ice. After he folded the stairs back up, he didn't say a word to me. Even when I tried to take his hand in mine, he'd pull away and walk to the dining room in silence.<p>

At the bottom of the staircase, I grabbed Tate's shoulder and swung him around. His eyes were still pink and his nose blotchy. The shadows under his eyes were more pronounced and his lips were blue from his teeth digging so harshly into them.

"Tate, look at me," I said. His black irises focused on me, still no emotion within his expression. Everything about him was blank, and I realised this was the moment when that piece of him was brutally snatched from his heart. The damage was done, and I didn't prevent it.

"You don't have to sit at that table with those people. You can go home if you want." His voice was empty, but it hinted pure fury. I could now see the spoiled Tate I first met, and I hated it.

"No, I want to be there for you," I said, touching the side of his face carefully. Tate tried to smile, but he was so hurt that all traces of it wiped away in an instant.

I followed him to the dining room table, which was set with a variety of steaming meals. At the table sat Adelaide and Constance, and at the end was the man himself. He noticed our presence in the room and stood up as a welcoming gesture.

"I see we have a guest joining us this evening," he said, a smile poisoning his face. "Happy Thanksgiving. I am Larry, Tate's stepfather, and you must be?"

"You are nothing close to the word _father_," Tate muttered. Larry heard him and lowered his head slightly, but I chose to ignore his interjection. "Violet," I said emotionlessly, but still kept my smile broad. Larry stiffened and sat back down in his seat.

"My daughter's name was Violet," he said almost to himself, staring at the wall without seeing it.

"Was?" I said curiously, though I already knew why. I took a seat next to Tate and awaited Larry's response.

"Yes, was. She died in a house fire," he coughed out the strain in his voice. I pulled my most convincing sympathetic face. "I'm sorry to hear about that."

"Don't be sorry," Tate interrupted. "He's to blame."

"Tate!" Constance snapped, dropping a pair of tongs into the salad bowl. Tate gave her a mocking look and returned to staring at his plate.

"In a way, it is my fault," continued Larry. "My wife was quite unwell when I told her of Constance and I, and she didn't take the news as I'd imagined. She joins my girls in Heaven. God, bless them."

"Says the man who put them there," Tate said, unmoving. Constance's fingers slipped on her fork and it clattered against the china. "Now, who wants to say grace?" she said, changing the subject.

Tate's head snapped up and he beamed. "Oh, mother, may I?"

Larry grinned in response to Tate's forward gesture. "Oh, of course, son. I was hoping you would choose to become a part of this family." I could see Tate cringe at the word 'son', but he continued to show an approving front.

Tate sardonically wrapped his fingers together, bowing his head and closing his eyes. I did the same, and allowed his drunk-with-hatred voice to fill the tense atmosphere.

"Dear God, thank you for the salty pig meat we are about to eat, along with the rest of the indigestible swill. And thank you for our new charade of our family. My father ran away when I was only six. If I'd have known any better, I would have joined him. And, though I've been distracted by the lovely Violet Harmon, I can still see that the only reason my mother is screwing this asshole is to get this house back. So, Lord, a big thank you for blinding this piece of shit so he can't see what everybody knows."

"Amen," Adelaide finished. I opened my eyes to see Constance's jaw fallen open and Larry's palm against his face. Adelaide sat calmly in her seat, watching her surroundings like it was the climax of a film. Tate's eyes were blazing, his knuckles clenched against the table.

"Tate," Constance said, the pure outrage of disrespect coating her voice.

"Oh, mother, you think your little plans and tricks are unnoticeable," he said. "You twist everything until all the pieces fit perfectly, even if you've cut a few edges so they'll fit. But the only person you're fooling is the asshole seated at the end of this table. You really convinced him that you wanted his dick."

"Enough, Tate!" she snapped, her fair hair falling from its bun. "If this show you're putting on is about your father, it isn't my fault that he ran away with that little slut!"

This caught my attention. "Ran away?" I spoke up. "You told me he died."

Constance froze, finally registering my presence in the room. "Excuse me?"

"You told me he died," I repeated. "When we first met, you were telling me that your late husband was deceased. You said that was the reason you moved out of this house."

She swallowed some red wine and narrowed her eyes at me. "I like to think he's dead rather than admitting he chose a maid over me."

"Really? Because that's not how it came out," I said, taking advantage of Constance's vulnerability. Her face was pinched with lies. Tate stared between us, his eyes as bloodshot as they were before. Pieces of the truth were slowly coming together for him. "What was the maid's name, Constance?" I asked after a moment's silence.

She pressed her lips together before replying, "Moira."

"Moira's dead," I said out loud. A slap of realisation hit me. Of course, Moira was a ghost in my house. I didn't even consider the possibility until now, but everything made sense. Her husband didn't run away with Moira; she killed them both.

Constance was taken aback. "Are you implying something?"

"You killed them, didn't you?" Tate intervened. "And you got your little pet to kill Beau too."

"They were going to take him away! I couldn't bear the thought of them separating me from my child!"

"So you killed him so he'd go to a better place," Tate said, continuing to add another piece to the puzzle. She didn't give Tate a second glance; she was just staring at me with her pruned lips and blazing cheeks. "How _dare _you come in my _home_, sit at my _table_ and corrupt my _son_!"

Tate stood up, a protective gesture against me. "Don't speak to her like that! She's just telling the truth! But I need to hear it from you. Did you kill my father?"

After a moment of hesitation, she said, "Yes. But he betrayed me, Tate. He betrayed you and Addy and Beau. He and that bitch deserved what they got."

Silence fell. It was only broken when Adelaide began to clap, like a crowd member would at the end of a performance. Constance was being held back by Larry, and I found myself holding Tate's tense arms. I could feel his veins pulsing rapidly beneath his skin.

"That is nothing compared to what _you_ deserve," Tate said, ripping from my grip and storming out of the room. Constance's hand flew to her chest and her eyes flowed with fresh tears. Before I could witness her bawl, I ran from the table and caught up to Tate heading into his bedroom.

"Wait! Tate, stop," I said, grabbing his arm. He turned and looked at me directly. His eyes were cold and dangerous, the kind of eyes a killer would have.

"How do you know so much?" he asked. "How is it that you know our maid is dead, when their affair happened so long ago? Why are you so informed and I'm just clueing in now? _Who are you_?"

"You won't believe me if I told you," I whispered. Tate scoffed. "You don't think that after all this crazy shit I won't consider yours?"

"So if I told you that I'm from the future, you'd believe me?" I finally said it. That definitely wasn't what Tate had thought would come out of my mouth.

"The future?"

"Yes. I live here, but much later. I was looking for yo—someone when I went down to the basement. When I walked through, I came out here. This house brought me to this time to meet the past you."

"When you say the past me…" he said slowly, "Do you mean that there's another me in the future?"

I kept my breathing slow, but I couldn't help the tremble in each breath. "There is, except, you're dead. I just found out that you died this year, and that you're a ghost living in my house. That's how I knew Moira was dead; she's our maid."

I knew how crazy I sounded, and I could see that Tate thought so too. I was too naïve to think he'd actually believe me. But still, he didn't shout or accuse me of lying. "I die? When?"

"I don't know," I whispered, lying. There was no way I was telling him that detail. I was here to prevent it from happening; I wasn't going to fuel his imagination.

"So, let me get this straight," he said, grabbing a glass pipe from his drawer and lighting it. The smell of crystal meth filled the air. "You're from the future, and this house brought you here to tell me that I'm going to die?"

"No," I said, but in all honesty, I didn't know why I was here.

"Well, I have no idea then," he said, inhaling from the pipe. Grey smoke coiled within the glass and into Tate's mouth.

"I didn't expect you to believe me."

"You think I don't believe you? Hell, I believe _everything_ you're saying. This house is alive, and it has the capability to do anything. It whispers things to me, and it warned me about Constance and Larry. You've heard the voices calling out to you. Well, the ones that call to me speak the truth. Now that I know what she's done, I understand this house's value. All I have to do is listen to it."

Tate was deranged. Never had I seen him so high on hatred. I feared being in a room with him, this was his breaking point. But if I could settle him before the inevitable arrived, his savagery could be prevented.

"Tate, whatever this house tells you, it's _lying_. You told me to be stronger than this house, you need to be as well! Don't admit to defeat." I tried to approach him, but he dodged me. His attention was caught in the air, like he was listening to something.

"It's telling me that I can't trust you. What makes you think that I'd listen to you over this house?"

"Please," I whispered, hot tears stinging my eyes. "Because I love you."

The words got through the barrier between us, and for a moment he softened. The moment was gone and he pressed his lips together. "Get out!" he growled. Shock rattled my brain. This wasn't Tate; something had taken him over, possessed him. This house took advantage of his insanity.

All I could do was escape the room, run down the staircase and out the front door. I was greeted by the cold night air, and I hugged my shoulders. The tears started to flow, and I collapsed on the porch. A new emotion twisted at my chest. This was what heartbreak felt like.


	7. One Shot

**Okay, let me explain the lack of updates. I went camping for 2 weeks with no Internet and whatnot, BUT I had my trusty writing pad. I've written a few chapters to make up for it!**

* * *

><p>Sleeping on a park bench was just as uncomfortable as I imagined. After I fled the house, I went to the local park a few blocks down and indeed 'browsed' for the best looking bench. None of them looked at all appealing. It didn't matter anyway, because I barely got any sleep with all the tears I was producing. I didn't stop them; I just let all the pain flow out until I was drained. But even then, the tears kept falling. When I thought I was settling down, Tate's vicious words stung me again and my heart retracted. This house didn't bring me back to save him. It brought me back to watch as he deteriorated, and let me suffer in the process. I should have known better than to let my guards down.<p>

The sun dawned over the autumn trees, but that wasn't the only thing dawning. With every fraction of the sun warming up the dark sky, an inner strength was rising within me. The house thought it was better than me, that it was winning. Who was I to give up? I hung on Tate's words about being stronger than the house.

It manipulated my boyfriend to commit crimes, tried twisting me into insanity and tear my family to shreds. No, I wasn't going to be defeated by a piece of wood.

My muscles were tight as I stretched out my limbs. The bench provided no comfort or mercy. I needed to return to the house to check on Tate. The thought of his harsh words still stuck to me like glue, but I could only forgive him. All I wanted was for him to forgive me too.

_He'd have to have settled down by now_, I hoped.

The walk back seemed to be much longer than I remembered. Probably because last night I ran with tears blurring my vision. But even back in the present time, my walks to the park never seemed that long.

The house of horrors was in the near distance. I shuddered, remembering how alive it was. But I also felt comfort from it, like a safe haven. Though I wasn't quite protected by its walls, it was still my home.

I clasped the knocker and banged it against the front door. After what felt like a century, it opened. I half expected Tate to answer, but I was disappointed to see Constance's face staring back at me. She gave me a once over with her dark eyes.

"My God, do you _ever_ change those clothes?"

I touched my lace sleeve defensively. "Is Tate here?" I ignored her question.

Constance released a shuddered breath, eyes glistening. "No, he left about fifteen minutes ago. He's gone to school. Isn't that where you should be too?"

"School?" I choked and froze on the spot, my heart the only thing beating rapidly. I mentally hit myself for not putting together the pieces. Yesterday was Thanksgiving, which meant it was November 25th today. This was the day he'd commit the unthinkable and kill all those innocent souls.

"And if you think you still have the right to step into this house again—" she began threateningly. I didn't give her the chance to finish before I was running back down the street. Tate was most likely already at the school, and I had so little time. The high school was located a far distance from my house, and my dad usually drove me.

My feet could only go so far before they started to ache with strain. I ignored the pain and kept pushing forward. I'd already screwed up last night; I wasn't allowing the shooting to follow through too.

A scream pierced the air and I ran faster. The sound grew louder the quicker I ran, and I stopped in my tracks when I discovered the source. A man set on fire was flailing from a building, people scattered around him trying to put out the flames. One side of his face was still visible from the spreading fire, and I could just make out the familiar face. It was Larry. I felt nothing for his pain, his screams of agony. I'd never forget his acts of murder, and it left an empty whole inside of me that once held his pity.

I was wasting time gawking at the man in flames, and I kept running. The school stood tall in the distance, a different colour than I recalled. It still held the memories of my first day when Leah made my welcoming hell. I had refused to go back after the cat fight in the cafeteria, and just looking at the building now made me recoil. But I had no choice but to go in and stop Tate.

The push doors opened under the pressure of my fingers, and I was greeted by dozens of students walking about the hallway. Indicated by a large clock on the wall, classes didn't start for another few minutes. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; no screams or blood yet.

I slipped through the crowd in search for a head of blonde curls. The people around me were so calm, so unaware of their fate. Unlike me, who knew what was coming, and it scared me deep within my core.

A bell rang out, but that wasn't the only thing dropping into the air. The sound of a gunshot spilt the atmosphere, its sudden bang hitting every person in the hallway. It was as if they were all flies collapsing to the floor after being attacked with bug spray. Their screams of shock and fear spread throughout me, making me more eager to find the source. With people running towards the doors I came through, it made it harder for me to manoeuvre around them. It was like trying to fight a current at sea.

"Tate!" I yelled over the screams. My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it despite the havoc around me.

Another gunshot ran out and people continued to duck for cover and run. I clasped my hand around my mouth to prevent myself from retching when I saw a girl slowly sliding down the wall after a bullet struck her forehead. Her cherry red blood splattered the white wall and dripped down in sync with her body.

I tore my eyes away from the sight and pursued Tate. He couldn't be too far ahead of me. More shots were triggered from every direction. I couldn't follow a proper trail with the scent jumbled. He could've been anywhere, and with each shot, finding him seemed hopeless.

A flash of familiar curls caught my eye and I followed it, but I was stopped when blood splattered my shirt. It came from the mouth of a guy who then fell into the arms of the guy beside him. He died in his arms, and I looked up at him as he held the corpse. I instantly remembered his face; he was one of the Dead Breakfast Club members that approached Tate and I on Halloween. What I thought was a silly prank must have been impossible, for he stood in front of me, eyes fearful and just as youthful as I'd first seen him.

He dropped the body, blood smeared down his front. I caught his hand before he began to run.

"Wait! Where did he go? Did you see which direction?" I said quickly. He looked at me like I was insane. "Are you kidding me? We've got to get _away _from him! He shot that guy like it was sport!"

"I can stop him! Just tell me where he went—"

"No, you're nuts! C'mon, I'll take you to the library." He tightened his grip on my hand firmly, and it was shaking beneath my fingers. I couldn't control his pace or loosen his hold, so I allowed him to pull me into the library. We pushed through the doors and the smell of parchment filled my nose. Inside stood a few students and a teacher, their eyes as wide and frightened as the people in the hallway.

He let go of my hand and began to jam furniture and shelves against the door.

"What the hell, dude?" said the jock with his letterman jacket on. When I looked around at all the students, I recognised that all of them were, too, members to the Dead Breakfast Club. This was the room they all died in. But Tate would find his way in, giving me the chance to prevent him from killing them.

"Somebody is shooting up the school!" he gasped. "And he's just shooting people."

"Wait, are you hit? Where are you hit?" the teacher asked, his attention on the guy's shirt stained dark crimson.

"_Shit_, it's not my blood. I was standing next to this guy and he shot him in the freaking skull."

"Who's doing this?" the gothic girl with the long blonde hair asked.

"It's Tate," I said, and their eyes locked on me curiously.

"We've got to get the hell out of here!" the jock said, running for the door.

"No!" I shrieked, but a gunshot cut me off. He froze in the spot, his bottom lip quivering.

"Go! Go!" the teacher screamed. Cries emitted from the group as they searched for a hiding spot, and I followed the gothic girl into a section of the bookshelves, pressing my body against the shelf opposite her.

The silence of the room was frighteningly eerie. Feet clumped forward outside the room, and the sound of someone shaking the door made us stiffen. The girl in the cheerleading attire let out a soft yelp and clutched to her jock boyfriend from under a table.

The footsteps ceased, and everyone seized a breath. The jock came out from hiding, but crouched in fear as the footsteps regained pace. They were now coming from the door at the other end of the room, unguarded and vulnerable. And the handle started to turn.

"Lock the door!" he whispered. "Get the door!"

The teacher ran for the door and blocked it with his body, attempting to lock it. Shattering gunshots pierced through the wood and were sent straight into his torso until he gave way and fell to the floor.

The sound of the door swinging open indicated Tate's presence in the room. I sucked in a breath as his loud footsteps got closer and closer. He was whistling, like this was just a fun game of hide-n-seek, and I could almost agree if the atmosphere wasn't so unsettling. Out of the entire time I knew Tate, this was the moment I truly feared him. But I didn't fear for my wellbeing, I feared the monster consuming him.

The footsteps ceased, and my breath, too, came to a halt. I tried to settle my heart beating rapidly against my ribs so it wouldn't give away my hiding spot.

I looked over at the girl across from me, and her eyes widened suddenly. A stack of books dropped from the shelf beside my head, slamming to the ground and breaking the harsh silence of the room. I turned to look through the new hole, and I was greeted by Tate's dark eyes. They were full of surprise; he hadn't expected me to be looking back at him. His eyes were replaced by the barrel pointed between my eyes, loaded with the one shot that would end it all.


	8. Evolve, Adapt, Kill

_This is it,_ I thought. _I'm going to die._

The barrel began to shake as I looked down it, waiting for the bullet to speed through the tube and impale my forehead. At least when it struck, it'd be quick.

"Move," he growled.

Confused, I shifted my head a fraction and the gun went off. I snapped my eyes in the direction that it was shot and saw the gothic girl hit the shelves, knocking the books off. She caved in and collapsed to the floor, the side of her head bloody and exposed. I felt like I was in the middle of a horror film, but this was reality and I actually witnessed someone getting their brains blown out. I tried imagining that it was just gore makeup, but not even artists could pull off something that detailed and accurate. I'd never be able to sit through a horror film again.

Tate's gun retracted and he continued on his spree. His whistling returned and his gun swung freely in his hand. There was a skip in his step, like he couldn't wait to shoot another person.

His gun steadied as he listened for a whimper. Tate had found his next victim. Before he could pull the trigger, I lunged for him and stood between him and his target. My hands wrapped around the black leather coat he was wearing, looking into his dilated eyes.

"Stop this, Tate!" I screamed. He wasn't even giving me the recognition. Tate tried to move me aside to aim properly, but my rage got the better of me and I slapped him hard, leaving a red hand print against his cheek. Bewildered, he grabbed my wrists in one large hand and pushed me backwards until he had me pinned to a desk. My spine hit it with a deafening crack, and I winced. My heart was beating so fast that I was afraid that a beat might trip over the next and completely fail on me.

"You can't stop me!" he said, a deranged laugh escaping his lips.

"I can try," I said just as viciously. He pushed my back deeper into the desk edge, and I tried to keep my composure. The pain was agonising, but nothing compared to the heartache I felt when I saw how cold he was towards me.

"Why are you even here? I bet you knew all along that I was going to do this."

"I did, and that's I'm here to stop you," I said.

"You thought the house brought you back to stop me, right?"

"Yes, and that's what I'm going to do." I lunged for the gun in his hand, seizing it. When I tried pulling it back, his restraint was much stronger than my feeble grip. As I let go in defeat, Tate gripped my shoulders, making me whimper.

"On, you're _so_ brave, Violet. But what makes you think that I won't kill you _right now_ along with everyone else in this room?" he spat hotly into my ear. He smelt strongly of crystal meth and copper.

"Because you already had the chance to kill me but you didn't," I said through gritted teeth. Tears were threatening to fall, but I bit them back so hard my mouth began to fill with the taste of tangy rust. I'd encountered so much blood and all I wanted to do was vomit to eradicate it from my tastebuds.

"I might have spared your life once, but don't think you're so lucky to fool me twice."

"You don't have to do this, you don't have to kill because you're hurt," I whispered.

"I do, but not for my benefit. I need to take these people away. I'm doing them a favour."

"How is killing them meant to be helpful? You are _sick_, Tate."

"No, no, no," Tate said, grinning sadistically down at me. "They're going to a better place! This cruel stinking world is going to hell and I'm saving them before they burn with it. Everything about this existence is torture. We evolve, adapt and kill."

"What about love?" I said.

Tate stepped back a little. "What do you mean, 'love'?" he spat. I hit a nerve; there was a shift in his dark irises.

"You think this world is all about hate and killing, but there is so much love too."

"You don't know how it feels to live your whole life not being loved," he murmured, his eyes glistening as they bore into mine.

"Tate, _you are loved_," I emphasised on those three words. "As twisted and vague as Constance shows it, she loves you."

When Tate began to retort, I silenced him by continuing. "And I love you, Tate. Yes, this world is going to shit, but you still have me. You're cared for. You were the one who told me to be stronger than the house. Don't let yourself forget that. _You are stronger_."

"But you'll be happier without being trapped in this hell..." he whispered, lifting my chin with his free hand. Tate genuinely thought that taking people's lives meant a happier one in the afterlife. Little did he know that all these people would be trapped as ghosts.

"I am happy. I am happy with you."

I allowed him to settle down, to retract his hand from my shoulders. My body was burning, but I didn't dare move to sooth it until I had Tate under my complete control.

"I'm so scared, Violet," he whispered, tears forming in his eyes. I took his jaw in my hands and cleared the overflowing tears escaping with my thumbs. I could see his irises now; the monster inside him was slowly deteriorating.

"No more killing," I said firmly and seriously before pressing my lips to his. At first he hesitated, but then the gun dropped loudly to the ground and he wrapped his hands around my waist, pulling me in. I didn't care that there were half a dozen teens still in shock and hiding, probably watching with confusion and relief. All that mattered was that I saved them, but more importantly, I stopped Tate Langdon.

At the surface of my mind was relief that it was all over, but deep down I knew it was just the beginning.


	9. Closure

"Don't hurt him!" Constance's voice pleaded. Her screams along with the clicking of a dozen guns racked at my brain. Not to mention my heart rate that was pulsating loudly. Hands ripped at my limbs as I raced down the hallway, my legs weighing me down. The length of the narrow hallway seemed to be longer with every step closer to Tate's door. I didn't know what to expect when I reached it, or how I'd react to the sight.

My fingers finally clasped the doorhandle before the grabbing hands around my arms could stop me. I didn't know what my reaction would be, but once I saw the scene in the room, my mind buckled and I ran in, fully aware that my life would consequently end the moment I stepped through the threshold.

_12 Hours Earlier..._

"Take my hand!" Tate said, and I took his in mine. Immediately, he pulled my limb and we were on the run.

Only moments ago, the jock in the library attempted to ambush Tate in the settled state I put him in, but Tate's reflexes were too fast. Before the guy could attack, Tate had the gun back in his grasp and shot him square in his throat. Blood spat out like water in a fountain. His cheerleading girlfriend shrieked loudly, which indicated Tate and I's time to flee.

We escaped through the back of the school unnoticed, but most of the grounds were isolated already. Police cars were screeching to a halt out the front, but the building protected us from them sighting our getaway.

I slid through the thick, mangled bushes fencing the school grounds after Tate, twigs and leaves tugging at my hair as I blindly made my way across. With my hand still held tightly in his, I trusted him all the way to the other side. Relief flooded through me as the bushes parted, our final escape succeeding.

"Tate, where are we going?" I asked between pants as we ran.

"We have to get back to the house so I can pack some things. Then we're going to leave as soon as possible," Tate said, not turning back.

"No, we can't go there," I said, aghast, stopping in my tracks. Tate was jerked to a halt.

"Violet, I don't think you understand," he said quickly. "I've screwed up, I've killed people! You know what they'll do to me if I'm caught."

"I won't let anyone hurt you," I said, "but you can't go back in that house."

Tate sighed, leading me out of sight. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his eyes boring seriously into mine.

"Yes," I said, and I meant it. All that we'd been through, and after all the chances he had of hurting me, I knew he was worthy of my faith.

"Then let me go to the house," he said, grabbing my hand again and pulling me forward.

We slowly approached the house, but we stopped immediately once noticing the cop cars flood into the driveway and the road.

"Shit," Tate murmured, ducking frantically behind the bushes across the street. His face was expressionless, but I could see him contemplating our next move behind his eyes. "I know a place we can hide," Tate finally said as we ran again.

We were crossing the open plane at a park, and I was confused as to where that hiding spot may be. Besides the playground swings and some spindly bushes, we were sitting ducks in terms of camouflage. It was only when Tate led me to the ground that I understood. He grabbed at the grass, ripping it away with dirt flying. After clearing it all, a rusted handle was revealed. Tate opened the latch, the stench of earth and duskiness hitting my face.

"Get in," Tate hurried, and I stepped down the rickety stairs. He followed after, closing the door behind him. I suddenly felt very claustrophobic, being trapped underground. He clicked on a light connected to the roof, and I was surprised to see it actually working down here.

"What is this place?" I asked. Tate touched the sides of the room, bits of soil crumbling at his touch.

"It's my old hideout as a child. I was ten when I found it. I'd come here if things at home got too intense. Whenever Constance got pissed, she was violent. This place took me away from her, from the outside world. It was like the earth beneath our universe held more security. This was my closure."

I watched in silence as Tate relived his memories, and I could feel his personal atmosphere relaxing, as it might have done when he was a child. But now, after all the murders he committed, there was the tenseness in his shoulders that showed he was still fully aware of his sins.

"Tate," I said softly, caringly. He noticed the tone in my voice and tears filled his eyes. Without another word parted between us, I embraced him, allowing his body to slump against mine. I caressed his tangled curls, damp with sweat and pain. We fell to the floor together, bodies entwined as he poured out his regrets. I couldn't help but be angry though. The house screwed him over, and I was just a little too late. Though I did save him from death, his consequences were far from finished.

* * *

><p>A few hours passed and Tate was slowly gaining composure, but I was going insane. The cramped cave walls and mucky, warm air made we feel more anxious than comforted. I was grateful, though, that Tate and I had a place to hide. Being underground was—though I didn't like to admit—much safer than above.<p>

"What are you thinking about?" Tate's soft voice broke through my thoughts. I was wrapped under his arm on the small, fraying mattress in the corner. It provided no comfort whatsoever, but I couldn't really complain.

"How long we're going to stay here. I mean, we don't have any food or water. How will we survive?"

"Trust me, this is only temporary," he said through gritted teeth. The tone of his voice indicated his slight discomfort from being here too. "Tonight, we are going to leave here. We'll sort everything else out after that."

"I don't know what we're going to do," I whispered, nuzzling into his side, the beautiful aroma of copper filling my senses.

"You're from the future, right? You must have known what will happen next."

"In my time, you commit fifteen murders at our high school and were killed by a S.W.A.T team in the house. Well, that's according to Google."

"Google?" Tate asked, confusedly. I could help but smile at my mistake. "You'll find out one day."

"Well," he said, a smirking tone coating his voice, "I only killed five people, so I've improved from fifteen. Ten people got to walk away. That's gotta be a positive, right?" I could tell Tate was trying to keep the liveliness in the situation. It was a struggle, but I smiled.

"It's also a positive that you're alive. We've changed history. There's no knowing what will happen next, but at least I've kept you alive. Perhaps I could bring you back with me to my time if I got the chance to."

"Your Tate is still there, though," he whispered. Being with this Tate had made me completely forget about my _real _boyfriend. I hated to admit it, but I was falling in love with this one more. Here, he was less sinister and dark, quite unlike the one I knew first.

"You're right," I sighed. "And I'm probably never going to get back home anyway. I think I'm okay with being with you in this time."

"But this isn't your home," Tate murmured, so softly I barely picked up on the words. What I did hear sent shivers through my body. He was right, but I just didn't want to acknowledge it.

"Tate—" I was cut off when there was a soft scratching noise, followed by even softer screeches. "What was that?"

We both got up and hustled cautiously over to the dark space at the back of the room. Tate swung the light into the corner, and it flickered over the area. A group of sleeping bats were perched on the roof, unaware of Tate and my presence.

"How did they get down here?" I whispered to Tate, who glanced further down the cave.

"There must be another exit back through there," he muttered, pulling me back to the broken bed. "As long as we're quiet, I'm sure they'll leave us alone as well."

I climbed back in next to Tate, sighing into his chest. He pressed a long kiss to my head, savouring the moment. "I'll wake you up when we will leave," he said. "Just get some sleep."

As commanded, I shut my eyes and focused on my deep breathing. Before I knew it, I drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

><p>It felt like I never slept. I woke almost as fast as I fell asleep, but the atmosphere had dramatically changed. For one, Tate was gone. Panic rose in my chest as I stared around the empty cave.<p>

"Tate?" I called out, the words choking in my throat. After no reply, I ripped the tattered cloth from my body and stood up, ignoring my muscles aching. Had he left without me?

I made for the latch, but as hard as I pushed, it refused to budge. I smacked my palms against the dirt, bits falling down on my face. My hand went to wipe it away, but that wasn't the only thing on my face. Wet, fearful tears streaked my cheeks. The only exit I had was blocked off, and I was trapped down here, alone without water or food. Being so stressed about everything made my appetite and thirst disappear. Now it was thriving at my body, withdrawing all of my energy.

Then I remembered the bats, and their entryway. I walked over to their sleeping spot, seeing a bright light coming from further within the cave. Taking a gamble and a deep breath, I slowly made my way through. A loud screech made me break out into a run, the bats stirring around me. They were following my trail, some pulling at my long hair. The bright light was approaching fast, and at the last second, I scrambled through a large hole into the open air. My starving lungs cherished the fresh morning air, and I didn't realise how much I missed it. I was a fair length away from the park, but I was above ground nonetheless.

I then remembered what I needed to do, and I instantly ran for the house. My feet had found a new strength, the desire to find Tate pushing me faster. The house loomed closer, more and more cop cars surrounding the area. Now, the S.W.A.T team were parked outside, and I squealed inwardly. Those initials across their black van scared me within my core. Strategically, I made for the backyard to try and get through the house that way. Of course it was guarded, but my knowledge of my house allowed me to remember the small latch between the outside and the kitchen. Tate once showed me, but no one ever thought to use it. Climbing though it, I was inside, and I ran for the stairs.

Everything went in a blur from then on. Being deprived of food and water, having anxiety attacks from losing Tate, and the overall fear of the situation led everything to go in slow motion. I past Constance in the hallway, and she was screaming and crying as she was being held back by two men. They noticed me, but I was too fast for their grasps. I made for Tate's room, but complete exhaustion was taking over, the door appearing further away. Finally, I clasped my hand around the knob and opened. Shock—but not surprise—flooded me. In the room stood Tate surrounded by at least ten armed S.W.A.T team men. His hands were raised in the air, little red dots pointed to his chest. He was smiling, bringing his fingers to his temple, mocking the trigger of a gun. I ran in before the hands behind me could latch on.

"Stop!" I cried, putting myself between him and the dots, which were now on me. I felt intimidated, but I was too weak to care about anything else except Tate.

"Violet, this has to happen," Tate whispered into my hair.

"No it doesn't," I sobbed, not moving from my stance.

"I'm sorry, Violet," he said. "It does."

Tate leapt to the side grabbing his own gun from under a sheet, the armed men's guns clicking in unison. I waited for the shots to trigger, but they retreated. Confused, I went to turn my head to look at Tate, but the pressure of something cold and metal constrained itself against my temple.

"I love you," Tate whispered before he pulled the trigger with a deafening bang.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm probably not going to be updating as frequently as you'd probably like, 'cause I've just started my last year of school and I need to have my full concentration on studying! I'll leave you with this cliffhanger until next chapter! :) xo <strong>


	10. The Power of Love

I went completely numb, like the shot had frozen me in time. My body detached itself from Tate, yet I was still standing. Maybe I had died instantly and I was already a ghost. That thought was completely eradicated the second I turned around to look at Tate. No, the shot had not been fired through my skull. It was through his.

"No," I cried in a choked whisper, watching as Tate's body fell backwards onto the bed, dark crimson pooling around him. I immediately went to his aid, but he was dead the second he pulled the trigger on himself.

Tate knew that this was the future, the inevitable. Being here gave me the chance to protect him from that fate, but I had given him no choice but to kill himself in order to play out history correctly. I knew it was my fault that I allowed his time to end yet again, maybe in an even crueller way than the first.

I cupped my hand around his head in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but it kept flowing through my fingers and drenching them with his strong coppery scent. This was too much, all of this killing and death. One cannot possibly survive this amount of anguish in one lifetime; it would be enough to drive them insane. That's how I felt at that moment, like a piece of my mind had separated itself from the section of my brain holding together the sanity of my existence. My mouth parted to let out a blood-curdling scream before hands were upon me and dragging me away.

"Tate!" I screamed once I was in the hallway, calling out for the whereabouts of the ghost he'd now become. My wails were stifled by the men crowding over me, cutting off my breath and making it impossible to be calm. Hysterics took me over, but my body went into overdrive and crashed completely, leaving me cold and unconscious on the wooden floor.

* * *

><p>"I need food," I mumbled monotonically, sitting in a chair behind a white table. I gazed up at the man standing on the opposite side of the room, who was just <em>watching <em>me like an animal in captivity. Did he think I was dangerous? Did he think that because I was close to Tate, I was capable of the things he did too?

He nodded once, unfolded his arms and disappeared behind the door. I was left alone in the cold white room at the police station wrapped in a shock cloth and practically dying of hunger and thirst. Moments later, he returned with a sliced sandwich and a bottle of water. I'd never been so eager to see edibles before, and like I'd been starved for months, I devoured the meal in seconds. It didn't matter how I looked whilst I ate it, all I cared was that the bread and water would keep me alive that little bit longer. A part of my suffering settled as I finished consuming the food, but my body still ached with the memory of losing Tate. The meal threatened to rise back up my throat, but I forced it down with what little strength I had left.

"Will you talk now?" the man spoke almost if he were bored. I smiled at him patiently, taking a swig from my water and savouring my silence until he smacked a file onto the table. "Tell me about Tate Langdon."

I carefully opened the file, fresh sheets of paper binding together the contents of Tate's profile. There was a front on picture of his face, a light smile on his lips and blonde curls falling over his forehead. Then at the bottom, there was another photo of his body after he died, blood splattered on the bed with his arms resting on either side of his head. I bit back the tears that threatened to fall, knowing that the boy in the photos would no longer have a true existence, that he'd live the rest of his afterlife trapped as a ghost within the house.

"He was my boyfriend," I stated, raising an eyebrow. "Can I go now?"

"No, enlighten me further," he prodded, placing both hands on the table and leaning towards me. "What was he like?"

"He was beautiful, kind," I murmured, staring absently at the file. "There was a fraction of darkness that had him, and the house took advantage of it."

"The house?" he asked, his voice coated with both curiosity and mockery.

"Yes, _the house_. The house where your team gave him no choice but to kill himself in." I battled to compete with the viciousness in both our eyes, winning when he glanced away. He leaned over and flipped to a new page, one where five teenagers' profiles were clipped to the paper. "Miss Harmon, are you aware of the murders he committed at Westfield High on the 25th of November?"

I scoffed and said, "Yeah, I was there. I stopped him. See how there's only five students on this paper? There could have been ten more. They should be thanking me." I didn't care if I sounded like a lunatic, I'd had enough and was willing to spill anything I'd kept hidden and chained to the back of my mind.

"You were there," he said, jotting it down on a notepad he pulled from his jacket pocket. "Were you involved in these five deaths?"

"I already told you," I spat. "I was too late to save those ones, but the others got to walk free!"

"Miss Harmon, I know you're still in shock, but we need all the information we can get. Shouting the answers isn't going to help."

I shook my head incredulously. "I'm not the one you should be interrogating. The one you should be asking all these questions to is his mother. She's had way more involvement than I have in his life!"

Silence followed and I sucked in small breaths as he stared at me patiently. Finally, he spoke up. "Mrs Harvey has undergone some severe trauma over her son's death, and we're waiting for her recovery to speak to her. For now, we're going to ask _you_ the questions."

"That is total bullshit. Constance feels no remorse, no sorrow. _I _have undergone trauma, but that isn't stopping you from trapping me in this room!" I growled, hot tears reluctantly pouring down my filthy, sweaty cheeks. "Please, just let me leave," I whispered, choking on my words. I was tired and lonely and I just wanted to go home. _Congratulations, house_, I thought to myself. _You fucking win._

I could almost envision the house creaking in victory, absorbing the glory of taking not just one—but two lives to its game. I may not be dead, but my mind had deteriorated so critically that life seemed to be just unravelling through my fingertips. But before I gave up, I needed to get out of this room and pay Constance a visit.

"Alright, but only after you answer this," he said, refusing to break the connection between my eyes and his. "How did you stop someone as brutal as Tate from killing more of those students?"

When he asked that question, a vague smile spread across my face and I remembered back to when I first lay eyes on Tate, when we kissed on the beach, and how I made him surrender with my soft words.

"Never underestimate the power of love," I quoted ironically, but I never knew what effect that power had on someone until now.

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><p><strong>I know I've taken forever to update and it's not very long, but I needed to get this out before everything unfolds in the next chapter! I'll try to update quickly, but knowing that my assignments are coming dauntingly close, it may take a while. :) xo<strong>


	11. Perfect Son

I was eventually let out of the room, but not entirely let out of custody. When the man who was interrogating me was satisfied enough with my answers, I requested him to go get me another bottle of water, but in his absence I had enough time to escape unnoticed. I didn't care if they ran after me with guns or captured me in another brutal grasp—there was no securing the promise that whatever happened after this moment, I'd be back at the police station alive.

Shaking and out of breath, I finally made it to the house and pounded my fist against the heavy wood of the door until I felt the skin of my knuckles scraping away. For a second, I curiously surveyed the rawness of my hand and how fragile the tissue had become from the trauma and malnourishment that wore out my body the past few days. I was snapped from my musing to look into the sharp eyes of Constance, who had opened the door with both sorrow and frustration.

"Violet," she croaked in surprise, tilting her head to the side. "Do you think it's wise to come back here after everything you've done?"

"After everything _I've _done?" I scoffed, stepping towards her in a challenging manner. "I told them everything. Turns out Moira is filed under missing persons, and guess who is the number one suspect now?"

"You _bitch_!" Constance spat, lunging forward to dig her perfectly sharpened nails into the flesh of my upper arms. I let out an agonising squeal as I ripped myself from her grasp, her grip leaving long scratch marks on my skin. Stumbling backwards, my back landed onto the porch with a deafening crack. Constance was quick to seize me, grabbing my hair and dragging my body into the house.

All I could do was scream as my scalp burned severely. Her grip was so tight on me that my eyes started to water and I began to lose sight of everything that held together my consciousness.

"You've ruined everything," Constance growled as she continued to drag my half-lifeless body by the few remaining tough hairs from my head.

"You came here and turned Tate into a monster," she continued, pulling me onto my feet and slamming me against the wall. "He burned my husband and killed those children. And now I'm wanted for murdering the little slut who slept with my Hugo!" Constance drove for the drawer of a small table beside her as I stood frozen before her. She pried a small, silver pistol from the contents and flicked the revolver. "She deserved it, just like you do."

For the third time in my life, I had a gun pointed towards my head. It was funny how calm I was, so casual with having an object that could cause instant death aimed so simply at me. The barrel was almost enticing, greeting me by whispering, _It's okay, I'm here to free you._ I wanted to be freed. I wanted to be able to feel again, to be able to replace the numbness with something real. Of course, death would take me from reality, but anything was better than the emptiness that held me in this life. I didn't have to have Constance's gun pointed at me to know I was already dead.

Constance closed the space between us, the gun digging mercilessly to my chest as she whispered hotly into my ear, "Because of you, I lost my perfect son."

The shot ran out and bloody liquid instantly splattered on my face. I stared at Constance, her lips parted from the dark red crimson that had erupted from her mouth, her shuttered breath faltering. She fell to the ground, and in her place was Tate, holding his own gun out.

"I was never your perfect son," he said.

I allowed the tears to streak down my face as I stumbled over Constance's limp body and into Tate's arms.

"I thought I lost you," I whispered, holding him so close that my chest began to ache. Tate's sobbing made me look up and see the torment and grief painted on his angelic face.

"I'm so sorry, Vi," he said, looking down between us. My eyes trailed after him, noticing the red smears that stained his shirt front.

"Are you bleeding?" I asked hesitantly, pressing my fingertips to the redness until it rubbed onto my fingers. It took a moment to realise that Tate was dead, and that there was no possible way that he'd be injured. His cries confirmed what I had feared, and I looked down to my chest to see the open bullet wound and the blood pouring from it. Finally registering the situation, my body collapsed, and Tate held me all the way to the ground.

"Don't be scared," he said quietly, brushing my hair from my face in a soothing manner.

"I'm not," I smiled, allowing the blood to escape and cascade down my chin.

If there was numbness before, the sensation of a gunshot finally brought out life within me, and in my final moments of living, death was what unlocked my pain, and my freedom.

I was content knowing that the last pair of eyes I would see were Tate's dark chocolate ones, the eyes of the man I loved.

* * *

><p>Tate's P.O.V<p>

I rocked her body back and forth, pressing her up against me until I could feel her warm blood soaking through my shirt. It took me a while to gather the fact that she was gone, and there was nothing more I wanted to do than to give her life again.

Dying wasn't how I had expected. I thought I'd be someone else, feel different things and essentially leave this hell-hole house. But in death, I was trapped, confined to the walls of this _prison_, and Constance had selfishly trapped Violet with me.

Poor, poor Violet. My beautiful Violet. This wasn't how I wanted her life to end, nor have it end in this house.

"Violet? Violet?"

Something was calling out; a soft, soothing, motherly voice. Curiously, I took Violet in my arms and began to follow the chanting voice of the woman. Her body was so light and effortless to carry, and soon enough, the basement door was before me, and I opened it up with my free hand.

There was an eerie silence before the voice said cautiously, "Is that you, Violet?"

My breath shuddered and I took one step after another until I reached the bottom of the basement. "She's here," I croaked, placing Violet delicately onto the cement floor. When there was no response, I took one last look at her frail, lifeless body and trudged back up the stairs, shutting the door for what felt like the last time.

My room was almost exactly how I'd left it when I passed, all except for Constance's attempt to scrub the floor clean of the vile red mess. I sat down on the bed—avoiding the stained patches—and dropped my head to the mattress. Oh, how I'd been here before, laying helpless with a bullet in my skull, and Violet's tormented face craning over me. I didn't even have enough time to hear her last words to me before my brain had shut down.

I wondered what would have happened if Violet weren't there to stop me. I'd most likely be laying with dozen of bullets impaled in me, rather than just one. She was right about becoming a ghost in the afterlife, and now I waited for her to reunite with me too.

With a click, my door opened, and I leant up in anticipation, only to see Constance enter the room with a lit cigarette between her fingers.

"Did I get the little bitch? Is she dead?" she asked, taking a long drag in Tate's silence. The smoke coiled from the exposed flesh of her stomach where I had shot her from behind. I smiled knowing that I had the honour of killing my mother.

I nodded faintly, and Constance snorted. "Then where is she?"

"I don't know, she should be here," I murmured, realising how long it had been since she'd died. Maybe, she hadn't died, and she was still clinging to life down in the cold floor. I shot up and ran past Constance and to the basement, almost tripping down the steps in my haste. Where I had left Violet was nothing more than an empty space, not a single drop of her blood verifying if she was ever there. My hands searched feebly across the dirty ground, my attempts to hold in my panic failing me.

"Violet!" I screamed, choking on my cries. I was greeted by no reply, the memory of the girl I loved deteriorating with the ongoing silence.

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><p><strong>AN: You will not believe how sorry I am for not updating in so long! Please put down your pitchforks! I have now finished school and can finally tie up the ends of this story like I've wanted to forever. I really hope you enjoyed this after such a long wait, and the next and final chapter will be up soon! Reviews? I still love you all xoxoxo**


	12. Epilogue

_2011_

"It's a classic LA Victorian built around 1920 by _the_ doctor to the stars at the time," I heard the real estate agent recite to the potential buyers for what felt like the millionth time since she was appointed to selling this house. Only once she succeeded—a same sex couple who thought redecorating would cover up the fact that everyone who has ever lived here has died almost brutal deaths. It's their fault, in all honesty. They were the ones who thought they could acquaint their insignificant lives in a house that did not belong to them.

It belonged to Violet.

I did it for her—all the deaths and hauntings and fear was to keep her soul intact within the walls, even though she has been gone for 17 years. It's like my own personal vendetta to her to make sure that her death is worth more than any life that set foot in _her_ house. And if these buyers were to purchase the house, the same inevitable fate would meet them.

As the realtor placed descriptions of the interior, I snuck my head around the corner of a wall to listen to a man as he whispered, "Tiffany, wow," to a smaller female before nudging her and walking ahead. For a moment, I admired the back of her head and as her golden hair pooled on the shoulders of the mustard coloured cardigan she had on. My eyes then trailed past her floral dress and to the small black boots. Everything about her screamed Violet, but I knew that my mind was just wishing it could be. Now it'll be even harder to slit her throat if her family decided to move in.

The girl wandered for a while, touching the old wood and stepping on the floor until it groaned. Look at her, marking her way across Violet's house like it could be hers. Too bad such beauty can hold the most terrifying darkness.

She turned her head abruptly as my foot made a creaking sound when I stepped back.

_No, she can't see me now, not yet._

Her footsteps inched closer, and it was about the time when I started to think of the way I'll have to muffle her surprised screams and quickly snap her neck before anyone notices her lengthy absence. The steps halted when someone called out, "Violet!" and they faded off into another room. My whole body tensed once hearing her name spilled from the lips of another, now branding this girl as the woman I love.

It had to be a coincidence that this girl was named Violet. It had to be a fluke that her golden locks were uncannily alike my Violet's. It had to be every single explanation that abstracted from the idea that it could actually be her.

A hand fell on my shoulder, startling me. Constance was standing there with a shrewdly expression upon her preserved face. "Is that Violet?" she asked, her voice rid of any mockery or spite. Merely fascination.

"I-I don't know," I whispered, gulping. "I need to find out."

Constance's hand held me tighter so I couldn't walk before she said, "Do you think, even if it is her, that she'll remember you?"

She had a point. My Violet died, along with all these memories of us. There was no knowing that this Violet knew who I was.

"Tell me, Tate," Constance said. "Do you think she is a reincarnation?"

It took me a second to soak in her theory, but once it did, the pieces seemed to fit into place.

_"So if I told you that I'm from the future, you'd believe me?" _Violet had said to me all those years ago. I realised now that what she had confessed about the future actually came true—the shooting, my death; it all made sense. She wasn't a reincarnation; this was the beginning of everything that lead up to her falling into the past and meeting me, and now it was my turn to meet her again.

I turned to look Constance in the eye before saying "no" and pursuing the room Violet had gone into. Looking into the kitchen carefully, I watched as the realtor continued to boast her way into selling this God-damned hellhole to this family. Violet was preoccupied by inspecting the yard through the back door, so it gave me a moment to recollect her beauty. Her skin was like it always was; a delicate porcelain crème shade that left a faint blush to rise from her translucent cheeks. Her jaw was still sharp and guarded, but soft enough to place heated kisses to. The only thing missing was in her eyes, and what I meant by that was that they lacked hope, or self-purpose. This girl lacked any influence on my behalf, and I knew it would hurt me until the second I got to greet her.

Something scuttled by my feet—a small white dog stared curiously up at me, a faint growl boiling from its throat. I placed my finger to my lips as I took a few steps back, but it continued to follow with that protector-esque stance. Soon enough, it began to bark, so I quickly made haste and hid myself behind the door to the basement.

"What are you yapping at?" I caught Violet say in that same beautiful voice as she approached; I hadn't heard it in such a long time. Sometimes I thought I could hear her through the walls if I listened really closely, but it hardly compared to hearing it now.

Her figure silhouetted against the frosted glass of the door, and I had barely any time to bolt down the steps and hide before she attempted to open it.

The light flicked on as she made her descend into the basement, and I crawled behind a broken vent on the back wall. Violet stood there for a moment filled with curiosity and not a hint of fear. For a split second, her eyes fell upon me—but I wasn't sure if she actually _saw_ me until she approached. I knew I'd be caught when she got a better look, but as soon as her foot stepped over the place I had laid her dead body once, she shivered and retreated. It gave me a chance to relax before I followed her back up at a safe distance.

"—Murder suicide," I caught on to the realtor as Violet went into the room and I stayed behind the wall. "I sold them the house, too. They were just the sweetest couple. You never know I guess."

"Where did it happen?" Violet asked.

"The basement," she responded. Violet's eyes flickered to the corner of the door, too fast for me to fall back unnoticed. She had to have seen me, but all she said was, "We'll take it."

And with that, I was determined to make her fall in love with me for the first time, twice.

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><p><strong>AN: Well, that's it, guys, it's all over! Thank you so much for everyone who read, followed, favourited, and took the time to write me a review. You have no idea how much I love this story, but I love even more that you all stood by it after such a long time between updates. So, thank you again, and I hope you enjoyed the ending as much as I did wrapping it up. *teary eyed* Love, Mei-Fabula xo**


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